Imagine if you can the luxurious offices of one of the most infamous Inter-dimensional Law Firms: Dewey, Cheetham & Howe. The hour is late, well after midnight closer to the Witching Hour but five men sit in the massive board room. A room built to intimidate and overwhelm. The great expanse of the table stretches nearly empty but for the head, it is here that the men have congregated. The room is dimly lit, only the files stacked neatly before them are illuminated with light. Their expressions are left to shadowy speculations yet the tense atmosphere speaks loudly of their current dispositions. These men reek of power but tonight it is tainted with disgust, undercut with loathing.
At the head of the table sits the Honorable Mister Dewey. It was he whom had first come up with the idea for the law firm; an innovative way to bring more souls to the "other side", (as they prefer to term it.) For each client they accept there is a binding contract; they promise that the client will win but the price is quite simply their soul. There are never any exceptions and they always win.
To the right of the Honorable Mister Dewy sits the Honorable Mister Howe. A cunning man considered by many to be the brains behind the firm. But Howe is eaten with hatred and hungers for revenge; he is far too impulsive to be forthrightly trusted in their current situation, even by those whom call him colleague. To Howe's right sits Jasper Von Tod. He looks to be in his late forties, early fifties and of German descent, his features icy, unrelenting as if carved from unforgiving stone, and his eyes are as flat as any snake's; dead, emotionless, empty of humanity. He has been Howe's primary assistant for several decades now. When a job needs doing, Von Tod sees it done.
To Mister Dewey's left is the Honorable Mister Cheetham, the youngest of the three, not that you could tell by looking at him for of the three he looks the oldest. Mister Cheetham is best known for his flagging scruples of which he has few and his silver tongue; he could talk a nun out of her habit whilst convincing her it was for charity. To Cheetham's left sits one of the Research Department Heads, a youthful looking fellow, whose name is moot and whose suit is likely the least expensive out of all of the others he is currently in the company of.
"So, tell me, Mr. O"Brian, what has R&D been able to unearth about this *triumvirate* business?" Mr. Dewey asks in a low, hard tone, eyes narrowing on the youthful lad.
"Well, sir, as you can see by flipping to page 6 in file folder 12097 that is about all we've been able to find." Mr. O"Brian doesn't look at all comfortable; his voice is thready, low and tinged with fear. He is more than aware of what failure earns one of his status and just like the rest of the folks in DCH's R&D, he knows that page 6 of file folder 12097 doesn't hold the information the three heads want. "We were able to discern that it is some kind of, um, "ancient' spell. Most likely of angelic origin, something that has not been recorded by, ah, mankind, Sir."
The three Honorable Misters exchange dark glowering looks before returning their collective attentions to poor Mr. O"Brian.
"You have failed us."
"We cannot tolerate failure."
"This was a simple assignment, and *this* is all you can tell us" What we already *know*?"
The three spoke in unison, it would have been hard for anyone human or otherwise to have understood all of what was said in the cacophonous way it was spoken. Mr. O"Brian, with good cause, feels the chill of panic creeping up his spine, he manages a weak nod, a confirmation that he and his department have failed, but he makes one last attempt.
"We searched every known universe and dimension on record, Sirs. All we can find is what you see on page 6. My sincerest apologies, we did our very best!" O"Brian prays that they will punish him solely and leave his people alone, but he knows he has little say in what will happen next to any of them.
"So in short," Begins Mr. Dewey as he flips to page 6 in folder file 12097, "All we have is the knowledge that it is indeed a triumvirate and that it was magically forged using angelic mysteries. There is no known cure for such a spell, no spell on record, and no way of knowing what powers these three are likely to manifest. Nor can we tell when this spell was cast, where it was cast or what was used in the casting. Is this correct?" Dark, nearly black holes of eyes fall on O"Brian.
O"Brian swallows thickly as he nods, "Um, yes, Sir." his voice unsure.
"What's this notation here?" Dewey suddenly demands, "Is this a reference to some *Earth* fiction"!"
O"Brian had known at the time the department had added that notation it was a bad idea, but it had been something, which is more than nothing, and it was all they really had. He nods solemnly. "We felt any tidbit was worthy of a mention, Sir."
"So you included some harebrained fictional writer's idea of a," Dewey reads an excerpt from page six, "I quote: "Vampire, werewolf and necromancer triumvirate". And you believe this will help us how exactly?"
O"Brian once again swallows as if he's some thing unmovable, like his heart, stuck in his throat. "We felt that anything was better than nothing, Sir. Perhaps the author has some first hand knowledge" They do say that one writes what one knows."
"I see." Dewey pauses to stroke thoughtfully at his chin. In a soft voice he continues, "This is a monumental failure, O"Brian. You're fired." And with a wave of his hand O"Brian bursts into flames.
Screams and the stench of burning flesh fill the board room but it is all over in a mere 30 seconds, leaving Mr. O"Brian nothing more than a pile of steaming ash.
"I'll have one of mine look in to this author; O"Brian may have had a point." Howe speaks in a matter of fact tone of voice, as if nothing untoward has happened, (business as usual.)
The other two Honorable's nod in silent agreement, each holding their own thoughts close at the moment.
"We've seized the Oak and Ash, the building is rubble," Howe continues, "we are attempting to harness the nexual point's energy stream. So far we've lost more personnel than enjoyed any form of success. This nexual portal is no more predictable than any of the others we've requisitioned. We can't seem to imitate what the Bloods have done. We've got numerous teams assigned to working the problem; they are aware of time constraints.
"We're attempting to find the Brownstone, but reports show that the Westend has been corrupted. We find it hard to navigate through the area, however by using mere mortals we may have more success even if it is time consuming." His contempt at using mortals apparent in his voice, "The area reeks of Bordertown magics. There is no doubt that the Triumvirate is behind the sudden *change* as traces of their energy has been mined out as well.
"The bad news" The deed to the Brownstone expired, along with the rest of our Westend properties, somehow accounting overlooked the detail and an unknown party has already purchased the land out from under us. We're following the paper trail," Howe shrugs, "But so far we've found only dead ends." Secretly Howe believes Lankyn is behind this too, but until he has hard evidence he keeps quiet.
"The good news; the smear campaign is in full swing. I'll be sending Jasper to Rhy"Din," a nod to his assistant, "to continue the propaganda war and gain us more allies. Jasper and his team are well aware that if they cannot be won over one way, then any means are allowed. We should build a database of those most influential and powerful in Rhy"Din, we can use it to exploit them."
Dewey nods; making a notation in his personal notebook, the soft clack, clack, clacks of his fingers to the keys. Cheetham, who's been rather silent throughout this exchange, looks coldly at Howe from his position across the gleaming mahogany desk. His eyes hard and unfriendly, there is an obvious tension between the two.
"Careful you don't go too far Howe, we want this to go away quickly, not start another war."
"You have no idea what we're dealing with!" Howe spits the words at Cheetham. "They are more powerful than anything we have ever known. No one can say what their true potential is, except for *Lankyn*." Howe speaks the name as if it carries the plague, "They could be the unmaking of everything, and you casually sit by and watch from the safety of your self-righteous sidelines. Maybe you didn't want a war, Cheetham, but what you don't understand is; you've already got one, whether you want it or not." Howe rises from his seat leaning closer and closer towards Cheetham as he speaks.
Cheetham isn't in the least intimidated. "You said that about Michael's little adventure too, Howe, and what happened" Oh, no, wait, I remember; nothing happened." He doesn't hide his smirk. "Wasn't it Lankyn who stopped it' Just as Dewey predicted" You asked us once to slay the Oberon in his sleep, decades ago, do you recall" You said, and I quote, "One day he will be the death of us all!". Isn't this just another extension of your fear of the immortal" Isn't this entire situation based on your petty *needs*?"
"How dare you?"
But before Howe can strike Dewey interrupts with a commanding shout. "Boys!" his voice returning to normal, smoothly, automatically, "Behave, remember we have company." Dewey gives an almost imperceptible nod towards the deepest of shadows.
Cheetham and Howe continue to glare at one another but they fall silent. A low hissing growl escapes thick lips as Howe drops his gaze, retaking his chair. Cheetham follows slowly behind, but his eyes do not leave Mr. Howe. He doesn't trust him enough.
One thing Cheetham knows for certain; Howe destroys whatever gets in his way. Right now, Howe could perceive that to be Cheetham. Cheetham isn't out to make Howe his enemy; he's just tired of chasing the Oberon around. They've done it for centuries, using every opportunity they could find to somehow worm their way into a position of influence or control over them. "No, not them; him." Howe has a hard-on to see the Oberon dust. And neither of the other partners really knows the reason why. Therein lies the rub of it; not knowing why Howe holds his grudge makes Cheetham very, very uncomfortable.
Dewey looks to the shadows, speaking low. "I think that if you have anything to add, now would be the time to add it."
From the shadows glides forth a graceful form, pausing just where the shadows continue to clothe the face. The style of garb harkens to an era when men's tailored suits still flowed and flared, a time when moral decency ruled society, or at least the important bits anyway.
"Ah, Gentlemen," the voice deep, masculine, edged with a hint of sarcastic irony, "I have a plethora to add, do not forget, I have access to the very records we need the most."
The figure steps more fully in to the light, black orbs glitter where eyes should have been as Gabriel smiles angelically. "After hearing all you've had to share with me tonight, it's only fair I return the favor."
Dewey glowers at Gabriel, this truly is a partnership forged in Hell for there is no love lost between the three demonic attorneys and "God's Left Hand?. But when in need, one does as one must. Dewey settles back to hear what the Seraph has to say.
At the head of the table sits the Honorable Mister Dewey. It was he whom had first come up with the idea for the law firm; an innovative way to bring more souls to the "other side", (as they prefer to term it.) For each client they accept there is a binding contract; they promise that the client will win but the price is quite simply their soul. There are never any exceptions and they always win.
To the right of the Honorable Mister Dewy sits the Honorable Mister Howe. A cunning man considered by many to be the brains behind the firm. But Howe is eaten with hatred and hungers for revenge; he is far too impulsive to be forthrightly trusted in their current situation, even by those whom call him colleague. To Howe's right sits Jasper Von Tod. He looks to be in his late forties, early fifties and of German descent, his features icy, unrelenting as if carved from unforgiving stone, and his eyes are as flat as any snake's; dead, emotionless, empty of humanity. He has been Howe's primary assistant for several decades now. When a job needs doing, Von Tod sees it done.
To Mister Dewey's left is the Honorable Mister Cheetham, the youngest of the three, not that you could tell by looking at him for of the three he looks the oldest. Mister Cheetham is best known for his flagging scruples of which he has few and his silver tongue; he could talk a nun out of her habit whilst convincing her it was for charity. To Cheetham's left sits one of the Research Department Heads, a youthful looking fellow, whose name is moot and whose suit is likely the least expensive out of all of the others he is currently in the company of.
"So, tell me, Mr. O"Brian, what has R&D been able to unearth about this *triumvirate* business?" Mr. Dewey asks in a low, hard tone, eyes narrowing on the youthful lad.
"Well, sir, as you can see by flipping to page 6 in file folder 12097 that is about all we've been able to find." Mr. O"Brian doesn't look at all comfortable; his voice is thready, low and tinged with fear. He is more than aware of what failure earns one of his status and just like the rest of the folks in DCH's R&D, he knows that page 6 of file folder 12097 doesn't hold the information the three heads want. "We were able to discern that it is some kind of, um, "ancient' spell. Most likely of angelic origin, something that has not been recorded by, ah, mankind, Sir."
The three Honorable Misters exchange dark glowering looks before returning their collective attentions to poor Mr. O"Brian.
"You have failed us."
"We cannot tolerate failure."
"This was a simple assignment, and *this* is all you can tell us" What we already *know*?"
The three spoke in unison, it would have been hard for anyone human or otherwise to have understood all of what was said in the cacophonous way it was spoken. Mr. O"Brian, with good cause, feels the chill of panic creeping up his spine, he manages a weak nod, a confirmation that he and his department have failed, but he makes one last attempt.
"We searched every known universe and dimension on record, Sirs. All we can find is what you see on page 6. My sincerest apologies, we did our very best!" O"Brian prays that they will punish him solely and leave his people alone, but he knows he has little say in what will happen next to any of them.
"So in short," Begins Mr. Dewey as he flips to page 6 in folder file 12097, "All we have is the knowledge that it is indeed a triumvirate and that it was magically forged using angelic mysteries. There is no known cure for such a spell, no spell on record, and no way of knowing what powers these three are likely to manifest. Nor can we tell when this spell was cast, where it was cast or what was used in the casting. Is this correct?" Dark, nearly black holes of eyes fall on O"Brian.
O"Brian swallows thickly as he nods, "Um, yes, Sir." his voice unsure.
"What's this notation here?" Dewey suddenly demands, "Is this a reference to some *Earth* fiction"!"
O"Brian had known at the time the department had added that notation it was a bad idea, but it had been something, which is more than nothing, and it was all they really had. He nods solemnly. "We felt any tidbit was worthy of a mention, Sir."
"So you included some harebrained fictional writer's idea of a," Dewey reads an excerpt from page six, "I quote: "Vampire, werewolf and necromancer triumvirate". And you believe this will help us how exactly?"
O"Brian once again swallows as if he's some thing unmovable, like his heart, stuck in his throat. "We felt that anything was better than nothing, Sir. Perhaps the author has some first hand knowledge" They do say that one writes what one knows."
"I see." Dewey pauses to stroke thoughtfully at his chin. In a soft voice he continues, "This is a monumental failure, O"Brian. You're fired." And with a wave of his hand O"Brian bursts into flames.
Screams and the stench of burning flesh fill the board room but it is all over in a mere 30 seconds, leaving Mr. O"Brian nothing more than a pile of steaming ash.
"I'll have one of mine look in to this author; O"Brian may have had a point." Howe speaks in a matter of fact tone of voice, as if nothing untoward has happened, (business as usual.)
The other two Honorable's nod in silent agreement, each holding their own thoughts close at the moment.
"We've seized the Oak and Ash, the building is rubble," Howe continues, "we are attempting to harness the nexual point's energy stream. So far we've lost more personnel than enjoyed any form of success. This nexual portal is no more predictable than any of the others we've requisitioned. We can't seem to imitate what the Bloods have done. We've got numerous teams assigned to working the problem; they are aware of time constraints.
"We're attempting to find the Brownstone, but reports show that the Westend has been corrupted. We find it hard to navigate through the area, however by using mere mortals we may have more success even if it is time consuming." His contempt at using mortals apparent in his voice, "The area reeks of Bordertown magics. There is no doubt that the Triumvirate is behind the sudden *change* as traces of their energy has been mined out as well.
"The bad news" The deed to the Brownstone expired, along with the rest of our Westend properties, somehow accounting overlooked the detail and an unknown party has already purchased the land out from under us. We're following the paper trail," Howe shrugs, "But so far we've found only dead ends." Secretly Howe believes Lankyn is behind this too, but until he has hard evidence he keeps quiet.
"The good news; the smear campaign is in full swing. I'll be sending Jasper to Rhy"Din," a nod to his assistant, "to continue the propaganda war and gain us more allies. Jasper and his team are well aware that if they cannot be won over one way, then any means are allowed. We should build a database of those most influential and powerful in Rhy"Din, we can use it to exploit them."
Dewey nods; making a notation in his personal notebook, the soft clack, clack, clacks of his fingers to the keys. Cheetham, who's been rather silent throughout this exchange, looks coldly at Howe from his position across the gleaming mahogany desk. His eyes hard and unfriendly, there is an obvious tension between the two.
"Careful you don't go too far Howe, we want this to go away quickly, not start another war."
"You have no idea what we're dealing with!" Howe spits the words at Cheetham. "They are more powerful than anything we have ever known. No one can say what their true potential is, except for *Lankyn*." Howe speaks the name as if it carries the plague, "They could be the unmaking of everything, and you casually sit by and watch from the safety of your self-righteous sidelines. Maybe you didn't want a war, Cheetham, but what you don't understand is; you've already got one, whether you want it or not." Howe rises from his seat leaning closer and closer towards Cheetham as he speaks.
Cheetham isn't in the least intimidated. "You said that about Michael's little adventure too, Howe, and what happened" Oh, no, wait, I remember; nothing happened." He doesn't hide his smirk. "Wasn't it Lankyn who stopped it' Just as Dewey predicted" You asked us once to slay the Oberon in his sleep, decades ago, do you recall" You said, and I quote, "One day he will be the death of us all!". Isn't this just another extension of your fear of the immortal" Isn't this entire situation based on your petty *needs*?"
"How dare you?"
But before Howe can strike Dewey interrupts with a commanding shout. "Boys!" his voice returning to normal, smoothly, automatically, "Behave, remember we have company." Dewey gives an almost imperceptible nod towards the deepest of shadows.
Cheetham and Howe continue to glare at one another but they fall silent. A low hissing growl escapes thick lips as Howe drops his gaze, retaking his chair. Cheetham follows slowly behind, but his eyes do not leave Mr. Howe. He doesn't trust him enough.
One thing Cheetham knows for certain; Howe destroys whatever gets in his way. Right now, Howe could perceive that to be Cheetham. Cheetham isn't out to make Howe his enemy; he's just tired of chasing the Oberon around. They've done it for centuries, using every opportunity they could find to somehow worm their way into a position of influence or control over them. "No, not them; him." Howe has a hard-on to see the Oberon dust. And neither of the other partners really knows the reason why. Therein lies the rub of it; not knowing why Howe holds his grudge makes Cheetham very, very uncomfortable.
Dewey looks to the shadows, speaking low. "I think that if you have anything to add, now would be the time to add it."
From the shadows glides forth a graceful form, pausing just where the shadows continue to clothe the face. The style of garb harkens to an era when men's tailored suits still flowed and flared, a time when moral decency ruled society, or at least the important bits anyway.
"Ah, Gentlemen," the voice deep, masculine, edged with a hint of sarcastic irony, "I have a plethora to add, do not forget, I have access to the very records we need the most."
The figure steps more fully in to the light, black orbs glitter where eyes should have been as Gabriel smiles angelically. "After hearing all you've had to share with me tonight, it's only fair I return the favor."
Dewey glowers at Gabriel, this truly is a partnership forged in Hell for there is no love lost between the three demonic attorneys and "God's Left Hand?. But when in need, one does as one must. Dewey settles back to hear what the Seraph has to say.